


A Series of Unexpected Events

by misha_collins_butt



Series: Murphamy/Memoramy [6]
Category: The 100
Genre: Angst Free, Boys Kissing, CEO!Bellamy, Coffee Shop, First Date, First Time, Fluff, Happy Ending, Kissing, Light Smut, M/M, Smut, au - modern day, nerd!Murphy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-04
Updated: 2020-07-04
Packaged: 2021-03-04 21:20:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25063030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misha_collins_butt/pseuds/misha_collins_butt
Summary: In which I.T. manager John Murphy falls for the boss.
Relationships: Bellamy Blake/John Murphy, John Murphy/Bellamy Blake, Murphamy
Series: Murphamy/Memoramy [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1599514
Comments: 4
Kudos: 36





	A Series of Unexpected Events

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, I'm a sucker for this ship. Clearly an OTP and the worst part is that NO ONE ELSE FRICKIN SHIPS IT AAAAAAA WHERE IS THE GOOD TASTE IN SHIPS

It's a perfectly normal, exhausting Wednesday morning. Murphy is just as overwhelmed by the workload as he has been for the last two weeks, has just downed the third mug of swill that this place calls coffee, and is onto his thirteenth manual referral to upper management for a software report, and it's only nine a.m.

Because when you work in I.T. at a nationally reknowned franchise hospital, in a bustling city of nine-hundred-thousand people, the days start to blur together, and you begin to expect certain things of the monotony that you've deigned a career.

Which is why Murphy is not expecting to have his desk tapped on to get his attention, and he's certainly not expecting to glance up and find the face of a Greek Deity.

Dear lord, is this their new hire? Where'd they find this schmuck, the cover of Abercrombie & Fitch? Whatever, there's no time to wallow on the blood rushing south, creating a (hopefully unnoticeable) chub in the front of Murphy's slacks. 

Before the newbie can get a word out, Murphy shoots up, snatching the profile folder from his desk, and hustles the hire through the maze of interconnected cubicles, passing blank-eyed, slack-jawed coworkers on the way to the guy's station. The man is tall and seems mildly bewildered by the activity, but for Murphy, the ceaseless ringing and perpetual keyboard clacking has long since faded into the background, just like all the other noise of the world.

So he ignores the bafflement and rapid-fires his way through explaining what the temp will be doing for his initial three months, what responsibilities he can choose to take on after, and how they'll discuss a more permanent contract once his probationary period is up. He does not leave out the part about having to be cleared by the federal government to access confidential hospital information, mostly for legal reasons, including to make it harder to sue an I.T. employee for refusing to testify in a court of law on any sealed files they've seen. 

The two men finally reach the cubicle and Murphy pivots on his heel to look back up at the hire, and finish his spiel with an inhale that sounds more like a sigh, and a polite-as-can-be, "If you need anything or have any questions, ask Dorris. Her extension is three seven six; dial that and then the in-office number. Don't worry, she's a sweetheart."

And then Murphy is the one who's feeling a bit stumped, because this guy is just staring at him like he has a second head, seemingly speechless. Maybe he needs to go through everything slower? Oh shit, maybe the guy is deaf? The higher-ups  _ had _ been talking about making a few diversity hires. Did Murphy royally screw himself over by not bothering to go over the hire's details?

Finally, the guy breaks the silence with a slow and addled, "Uuhhh. I'm here to talk to the head of department about staffing and payroll issues."

It takes a second for Murphy to process those words, brain still on buffer from his two autopiloted hours of sifting through papers and pages upon pages of computer-logged data, but when realisation finally dawns on him, he feels his eyes balloon to a comical size as his cheeks turn fire-hot. He. Is. Mortified.

"Jesus Christ, you're my nine-fifteen, aren't you," Murphy closes his eyes and wishes for the floor to open up and swallow him whole. "The national head of HR."

The taller man laughs, a sound that startles Murphy in such a dreary, repetitive environment, and his eyes pop back open to gawk at the guy.

"Yeah, that's me," he pushes through the remnants of his amusement and sticks out a hand for Murphy to shake, which he does tentatively. "Bellamy Blake. I assume you're the district manager I'm supposed to be talking to."

"Yes. I'm sorry about the mix-up. Things have been a little..." Murphy drops his hand and looks around at the claustrophobic aisles of employees.

"Crazy?" Mr. Blake finishes for him. "Yeah, that's, uh...partially my fault, unfortunately. I was out of country for a financial convention. Everyone from district manager to CEO was there. I don't remember seeing you, though."

Murphy heaves out another sigh and begins leading Mr. Blake back to his own desk where they'd started, clarifying, "I couldn't make it. We've been understaffed for months and all the overflow from the empty spots is falling to me and the office manager, so I didn't have time."

"Ah," Mr. Blake sounds remorseful. "Again, my apologies. I probably should've considered skipping the first half of that convention, huh?"

Murphy shrugs noncommitally, never having been one to piss off the boss.

When they return to Murphy's desk and he spins around to offer Mr. Blake the seat across from him, he nearly stumbles back into the metal edge of the tabletop. Mr. Blake is standing directly behind him, much closer than Murphy expected. 

Seems like most things about this guy are unexpected.

Instead of backing away or doing literally anything else a normal person would do, Mr. Blake watches intently as Murphy scrambles to regain his professionalism. Then, with narrowed brown eyes that shimmer with splotches of gold under the fluorescents, Mr. Blake queries, "When was the last time you took a break from work?"

It, like everything else about Mr. Blake since the moment he walked in, catches Murphy off guard, and he sputters before finding his voice and answering truthfully, "I-I don't...remember."

Mr. Blake nods, appearing as though he's considering some data set on the screen, then he suggests, "My day today is free of any prior commitments. Why don't we reschedule this meeting for later this afternoon, and you and I sneak out for some real coffee?"

Murphy's mind short-circuits, not comprehending the meaning or motive of the words. Stupidly, he stammers, "Wh...I...you want...coffee?"

But Mr. Blake just chuckles, all casual and loose, hands in his work-pant pockets, as if he's a carefree sophomore at a uniformed school and not the boss of Human Resources for more than three hundred information technology departments nationwide, currently standing in front of an employee.

"Yeah, why not? I'll buy," he insists, jerking his head toward the doors to the outside world.

Murphy surveys the dwindling number of people hunched over in their cubicles, and replies, "I don't know. I have a lot of paperwork I'm still behind on and these guys might need me--"

Big hands fold around Murphy's shoulders and bodily turn him to face the tall, curly-haired employer, whose eyes are wide beneath low-knit brows.

"You are overworked, John. Let yourself relax," he maintains, making sure Murphy doesn't shift his gaze away. As though he would even if he could. "This problem will be resolved by the end of the day. You can worry about paperwork and staffing later. Let me make this up to you."

Murphy stares at him, voice stolen from his throat by some unseen kidnapper that rises out of the tingling sensation where those hands hold him up. 

Lamely, he manages to stutter, "W-Why do you...why's this...so important?"

Mr. Blake exhales a weary breath that smells of cinnamon and menthol, and he admits, "I feel bad about not getting around to helping with this sooner." Then there's a second of stillness where the taller man seems to be searching Murphy's eyes for something, until he further adds, softer now, "And maybe you intrigue me."

Murphy notes the restrained lilt to his voice, like he's biting his tongue on what he really wants to say.

"So...this would be...like, a date or something?" Murphy inquires breathlessly, lost in the earth coloured irises that seem to be shrinking to rings around growing pupils. 

A devilish smirk climbs up Mr. Blake's cheek and he concurs, "Or something," a hue that's far too salacious for work lurking in his tone. His voice returns to its normal volume and he quips, "Whatdya say, hotshot? Get outta here for a few hours? Blow off some steam?"

Murphy faintly wonders what would happen if he were to remain firm in his refusal, but even if he were brave enough for that, he doesn't think he'd really want to.

Reluctantly, Murphy nods, sliding his cardigan off the back of his rolling chair and following Mr. Blake out into the open, where the air isn't stuffy and the sun shines down from its jaunty April path across the sky and the people don't look like empty husks of their former selves simply drifting wherever the breeze so chooses.

As they walk the length of the building toward the parking garage, passing endless, windowless brick wall (since I.T. is the lowest level with outdoor access, and below them is a storage basement and the morgue), Mr. Blake chatters on, "We can take my car. My driver is out sick today, so I get to have some fun behind the wheel," he laughs at himself, all cheery and misfit in this place full of sad people going about their days like robots until they find some escape in the form of drugs or alcohol or excessive gym time or working too much. "I know this place way out on the edge of town, on Carolyn Ave., where they do all this fancy organic coffee shit. Like, responsibly sourced beans and hand crafted flavours and all that. Super popular with those hipster college kids. You know, the ones who wear...ripped jeans and beanies and recycled t-shirts or whatever."

Murphy nods along, though he doesn't really know. He was never much of a friendly type of kid. When he was in college, he was the one in sweater-vests and wire-frame glasses, lugging around a satchel of books and avoiding direct contact with anyone he wasn't close friends with, and primary school hadn't been much different. He figures Mr. Blake is just ribbing the young adults about their style choices, but the thing he says next contradicts most of what Murphy's always assumed about men in such powerful positions.

"I used to be exactly like them," the boss says as he leads Murphy to an upscale black Cadillac in the reserved parking section. Murphy's almost scared to step into it, certain he's not nearly well-off enough to belong in such a car. As Mr. Blake opens the passenger door for him, the taller man tacks on, "I don't think anyone really expected me to be where I am now. Too many stereotypes about those kids. A lot of them're gonna change the world, I bet. At least,  _ we _ haven't done much of anything about it, right?"

He watches Murphy over the door frame expectantly, so Murphy ducks his head and drops into the passenger seat. Mr. Blake is sliding into the driver's seat seconds later and starting the car with a goddamn fingerprint reader. Murphy gapes. Mr. Blake notices.

"Ah, it's...it's next year's model. New tech and all that," Mr. Blake says nervously. When Murphy switches his eyes up, he sees the roses of pink blossoming on Mr. Blake's cheeks. "It's something I would never personally pick out. Company car. My personal one is a sensible hybrid from 'o-nine. Much safer than this thing but...on company time, I drive their car."

Murphy doesn't really care so much. Though it does ease him to know Mr. Blake is not just another Fortune500 suck up like he could be.

The drive is about twenty minutes through the unremarkable blocks of buildings and pires, and at the end of the journey, they pull into a tight parking lot packed with cars.

"Always busy around this time, since all the students are usually just waking up," Mr. Blake comments, shutting off the car. They make their way through the quaint storefront boasting a few windows and sill-gardens, as well as an old-fashioned type, black and brown awning. Inside, the buzz of life is dimmed, college kids and late start workers milling about and slumped over laptops and textbooks and boundless piles of scribbled notes, as indie folk music from some obscure band seeps from the speakers overhead. In a quieter voice, Mr. Blake asks, "What do you usually get?"

Usually?

Usually, Murphy drinks whatever the hell is around. Usually, that happens to be the diesel fuel coffee that his office manager makes every morning when she comes in at six. Usually, Murphy would never ever ever be found somewhere so new-age or artisanal. So he looks back at the other man with panic mapping his face, and shrugs again, this time more like a cry for help.

Mr. Blake covers his mouth with his hand to hide his amused smile and approaches the counter. Murphy doesn't hear what he orders. His eyes are caught on Mr. Blake's backside, where his ass forms two satisfying globes beneath his slacks. Only when Mr. Blake turns back around holding a mug in each hand does Murphy's trance break. Luckily, Mr. Blake doesn't see his ogling. He thinks. Hopefully. Well, if he does, he says nothing, so...

They lower themselves into chairs across from each other at a small, round table in the very back corner, away from prying eyes, and Murphy accepts the drink that Mr. Blake sets down in front of him.

"Chai tea latte," he announces, blowing air over the foamy top of his own. "It's what I get every time I come here. Best one I've ever had anywhere in the continental U.S.," he raises a brow at Murphy and smiles excitedly over his mug. "Lot better than standard-issue, generic office coffee, I figure."

Murphy carefully takes a sip, hot liquid running across his tongue, and his mouth is flooded with a smattering of cooking spices and sweet flavours. Cinnamon, cardamom, nutmeg, chives, honey, vanilla. It makes him feel like curling up beside a fireplace with a blanket and a book. Warm, like the space between summer and fall where everything starts turning yellow and red and orange.

When he brings his eyes up in shock, he sees Mr. Blake is already inspecting him, waiting for his reaction. The other man asks, "Good?" And Murphy nods quickly, restraining himself from funneling the entire thing straight down his throat. A big, gleaming grin grows on Mr. Blake's teeth, and he joyfully declares, "Glad you like it. Good break from work, huh?"

"Yes," Murphy chokes out almost hysterically as he swallows and nods, a smile forming between his own cheeks. "Really good. Thank you."

"My pleasure," Mr. Blake mumbles into his mug before tipping it toward himself and taking a big gulp of it. 

Murphy nearly doesn't catch the auspicious glint in those brown eyes.

\---

They get back to Murphy's office three hours later, filled with good coffee and a flirtatious energy that comes out in fits of laughter over stupid little things. 

It's hard to switch back into business mode after all of it, but thankfully, their little meeting only takes about half an hour once they figure out the math of it. Then, it's just a few mouse clicks, a couple signatures, and the promise from Mr. Blake to personally deliver the envelope of completed forms to the tippy top of HR. (Aka, himself.)

And then, Murphy really does have to get back to work, but before he can, Mr. Blake pulls him aside to a little crevice between two bulky data towers where no one can see them and propositions, "Do you think I could see you again? You know, take you on a...proper date?"

Murphy's heart punches against his sternum and he's sure he must be absolutely beaming right now, but he makes himself play it cool by responding, "I don't know, Mr. Blake. Isn't that against the rules, or something?"

Mr. Blake's eyes drop to the floor and his face shines bright red as he stammers, "Y-yes, I suppose it is. You're right, that was inappropriate."

Seeing that his joke hasn't translated very well, Murphy grabs Mr. Blake's forearm and frantically corrects, "No that's not what I--I didn't mean..." he scoffs at himself for acting like a lovesick puppy but truthfully, this guy is...interesting. And funny. And so different from anything Murphy would've ever expected. "I'd love to. See you again, I mean."

His companion breathes out a relieved laugh and whispers, "Friday night?"

Murphy doesn't even stop to recall what he might already have on his schedule, he just nods furiously, delight in his eyes.

"Okay," Mr. Blake says, lips straining to hold back a smile. "I'll pick you up from here at five." Hands Murphy a card. "My personal number's on the back. Call me. Tonight or...tomorrow...whenever. And, uh...Mr. Blake is my father. Call me Bellamy."

With that, Mr. Blake - Bellamy - dips down and plants a sweet peck on Murphy's cheek before sauntering away and out the doors, leaving Murphy frozen in shock within the sea of computers.

\---

Nobody asks why he's so dressed up. Mostly everyone at work is too focused on their constant feed of materials to even notice, but the ladies in the cafeteria that he does Mahjong and Wine Night with every Saturday definitely notice. They notice, but they don't say anything, just give each other a few knowing looks, as well as smiling adoringly at Murphy, which he really doesn't mind considering the youngest of them is about thirty years older than him. He's never been good at making or keeping friends his own age. Older folks have always been his favourite, and these ladies especially so.

The day flies by at amazing speeds, and Murphy gets more work done that usual. Maybe it's the anticipation roiling through his veins. It wouldn't surprise him. He didn't even have coffee this morning. By the time five p.m. rolls around, he's giddy with it. His whole body feels like it's vibrating.

He's standing out front of his office for less than a minute when a silver Toyota Camry pulls up and Bellamy's smiling face peeks out at him through the passenger window.

When Murphy clambers in, Bellamy's got his lower lip caught between his teeth and he's positively gleaming with joy as he teases, "Hey there, stranger. Lookin' for a night out?"

Murphy giggles - fucking  _ giggles _ \- and nods, replying, "How'd you know?"

They're both grinning when Bellamy swerves back onto traffic.

\---

The restaurant is at the top floor of a conference centre, a fifteen story building with glass for walls and several floors of stately rooms for management-type visitors to stay in while here on business. 

Bellamy explains to Murphy that the place does Egyptian cuisine and then astounds him by ordering in flawless Arabic and thanking the cherrywood-skinned server, who smiles cordially at his display. Usually Murphy is entirely unimpressed by the mating dances of high society, since he was born and raised in lower-middle class New Mexico, where the best way to catch your crush's eye was to 'court' them in private and not make a big, flashy show out of it.

But something about the way Bellamy holds himself tells Murphy that the guy doesn't really do or say things to charm, he does and says things out of respect for others. When he ordered, he spoke softly, like he didn't want anyone to overhear, and all his attention was on the waiter. And when he'd taken Murphy to that coffee place on Wednesday, he hadn't done it to show off his wealth, he did it because he appreciates the importance of local business and genuinely thought Murphy would like it as much as he does.

There's no ulterior motive to his education or style, and Murphy doubts the man would ever intentionally paint himself as something that he's not. This is just...who Bellamy is. Authentically, boldly, unapologetically himself. And Murphy thinks he kinda maybe might be falling for it.

They're served within twenty minutes of ordering and everything looks divine. They have a main dish, and then stay for a dessert when Bellamy turns his sparkling eyes on Murphy, as if asking permission. 

And at the end of the night, Bellamy asks if Murphy wants to do anything else as he holds open the door to his car, and when Bellamy slips into the driver's seat, Murphy gives him a shamelessly brassy look and nods a little.

Bellamy asks him what he's thinking, seemingly still completely unaware of the way Murphy's leering at him, and Murphy leans over the centre console to speak into Bellamy's ear. When he pulls back, Bellamy's stunned expression faces out the windshield for a second before turning to look at Murphy almost breathlessly, searching.

"Really?" Bellamy whispers back, voice thick. Murphy nods once more, not leaning away from Bellamy's space, and the other man inhales a sharp gasp and wordlessly starts the car.

\---

Bellamy lives in town, much to Murphy's surprise, in a wide, nine-story, white building that looks a lot like a hotel if you're not looking closely enough. There's a doorman and a lobby that they call 'the community area' which houses a table with a spread of fresh baked pastries and nice pod coffee and a fancy Keurig, and there's even a guard just inside the entrance, one that has a gun and a taser and a baton holstered to his hips. Apparently his name is Bernard, he's forty-seven, and he retired from the city police force specifically to get this job through the private security company that the building uses, because his daughter lives here with her husband. 

The elevator smells strangely clean. Not like cleaning supplies or like someone overdid it on the chlorine in the pool, but like a light spring breeze across a wildflower field, a faint scent that relaxes Murphy and makes him shift ever further into Bellamy's body until he's resting his head on the taller man's shoulder and Bellamy's got an arm around him.

And maybe it was the expensive wine that Murphy had two glasses of even though he's inarguably the worst lightweight in the world, or maybe it's the cologne Bellamy is wearing, but by the time they get inside Bellamy's loft, Murphy feels dizzy and out of his mind with ecstasy. They're crashing their lips together before the door is even fully closed, shoving off jackets and yanking shirts over heads and god, Murphy's never done anything like this, has always waited a few dates before getting so much as a little handsy - and he's talking above the waist, over the clothes, tentative groping at most. Nothing like this. Nothing so bawdy and desperate.

Bellamy has him laid out on the sofa in seconds flat, legs all twisted, fingers tangling in undone hair, soft moans and needy gasps as they grind together through their pants. Once they gather their composure enough to actually finish stripping down, they're barely holding on by a thread already. So when Bellamy rushes down the length of his body and takes Murphy's cock into his mouth, it's well past the point of no return. He comes in under a minute, and Bellamy swallows it all down, doesn't falter on his slithering path back up to connect their lips again. Murphy strokes him with encouraging nips at Bellamy's neck and a possessive touch, and with heaving, huffing breaths and grasping hands, Bellamy shoots across their stomachs where their bodies just barely separate to fit Murphy's hand between them.

After, they spend literal hours just kissing, naked on Bellamy's couch, and neither of them mind a bit when the cum turns their pubic hair stiff or when their skin sticks together when they finally do get up around midnight.

No, Murphy doesn't mind a bit that he's falling for this sappy beanstalk boy with glittery eyes and freckles like specks of dirt after a day of playing outside and floppy curls that complement his upturned nose.

And Murphy doesn't mind a bit that, the very next week, he gives his boss a two week notice.

\---

Murphy finds out he's something of a prodigy with spacial configuration. He gets a job as the sole packager for a local, independently owned online hygienic shop, working for a nice woman in her forties who treats him like the child she never had. She and her spouse live in a sweet little cottage on the outskirts of town, close enough to that lovely coffee place that Murphy and Bellamy often meet there at quarter to ten and talk about anything their conversations might lead to.

Three months in, Bellamy asks Murphy to move in with him, and it's fast and they know that, but just a week before, Bellamy had accidentally said 'I love you' at the end of one of their dates and Murphy had been shocked but had unquestioningly said it back. And so really there was no point in delaying the inevitable - Murphy would move in in July, after the lease on his own apartment is up.

They don't know it yet, but two years down the road, they marry each other under a red sequoia in Oregon with tears in their crinkling eyes and the first hints of grey sneaking into their hair. They'll go on to adopt a little boy from Syria and give him everything they have, their whole hearts and every ounce of love they can't figure out how to spend on each other, and eventually they'll adopt again, another boy orphaned by the Syrian war who could really use a family. The third time around, they'll adopt a girl, older than most in the system and a little troubled, and they'll teach her that there's nothing to be afraid of, that letting a family love her is nothing to be feared, and she will end up graduating from high school a year early with high honours, a few awards, and a full scholarship to MIT, following in Murphy's footsteps.

And they don't know it yet, but at the very end, they'll die together, peaceful and smiling in each other's arms one gentle, moonlit night in May. 

All because of one flustered software editor making a fool of himself in front of his unexpected visitor.

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos and comments are love <3


End file.
